The Great Debate
by classroomboredom
Summary: Everyone wants to be president-but will candidate Bernie Sanders be willing to commit murder? Pls read.
1. Chapter 1

**"Let us never forget that government is ourselves and not an alien power over us. The ultimate rulers of a democracy are not a President and senators and congressmen and government officials, but the voters of this country."** Chokes out Franklin D. Roosevelt on one especially emotionally charged evening. " **They are coming."** He slumped over, defeated, sitting on a slowly spinning stool. He looked so frail, all those years finally catching up at once. His 2 year old daughter runs up out of nowhere. Her daddy won't wake up. Her name is Kelly. She clings to his pant leg, crying tears of joy.

"It worked!" She cries. "Mommy! It worked!" Franklin D. Roosevelt's wife stepped out of the shadows and rips off her mask, revealing Donald Trump.

"Donald Trump 2k16" he whispers, breakdancing away.

Kelly watches him go, her lips pulled out in a pout. Once Trump leaves the room however, her pout stretches into a sneering smile. She grabs the back of her head and pulls, tugging free a latex mask. She runs her hand through her short, blonde hair and frowns in dismay in the mirror. Her gray roots were showing. She was going to have to plan a touch up appointment at the salon before her next public appearance. She slips out of the girlish cotton dress and smooths out any wrinkles in her dress pants and top, readjusting the pin she wears on her chest. "Hillary Clinton for President," it reads.

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 **AN: Ohh, a cliffhanger.**

 **Keep reading!**

 **-Mary and Fallon**


	2. Chapter 2

Meanwhile…

Setting: a mysterious, dark room

Character: a shadowy figure with a masculine voice draped in a presidential campaign sash talking with Bernie Sanders

"I need some help, see, and you're the only one that can provide that help, Sanders."

Bernie scowled. "What makes you think I'll help you?"

"We both want Hillary gone, don't we? You and I, we get each other. We have a connection, even if we don't understand it yet." The figure offered a hand to Bernie.

"Do you accept?"

Bernie slowly reached out his hand and shook on it, his eyebrows knitted in slight confusion. Bernie was getting some weird vibes for a business meeting.  
"Of course I accept." Bernie went to withdraw his hand, but the man held on for a moment longer. An awkward moment passed, the man's eyes boring into Bernie's.

"I just want you to know how much this means to me, Bernie. How much you mean to me."

Bernie's eyes widened in surprise and he hastily withdrew his hand forcefully. "Right then. Can't wait to do business with you." He cleared his throat, suddenly very uncomfortable under the man's stare. He wiped his palms off against his pant legs in a feeble attempt to remove the sweat that had gathered in his hand. He stood up and left the room, pretending not to notice his partner's eyes on him until he got in his car.


	3. Chapter 3

Bernie immediately began planning out his course of action. First, he put on a dark blue suit and a red, white, and blue tie. A dark wig blanketed his balding scalp. He looked into the mirror and smiled in the way you smile when your grandma tells you you've gotten bigger and you don't know what to say. Or when a stranger tells you something and you can't understand what they're saying because people are yelling so it's loud and you just nod and hope they weren't asking you a question. Or when a little kid draws you a picture and you can't tell what it is. Or when you ask the waiter for a smoothie with whipped cream but they don't put whipped cream on it and you're too shy to ask for some and you don't want to trouble them by making them walk all the way to the kitchen and then all the way back just for your whipped cream because their job is already hard enough, dealing with stupid people all day and now having you whine about your spoonful of fairly thick cream containing enough butterfat to make it suitable for whipping.

That kind of smile.

Hillary stood in the driveway outside Roosevelt's house, her foot tapping impatiently on the cold concrete. Bernie was twenty minutes late for their business meeting. A black Volvo swung into the driveway and Hillary walked over to meet it. Bernie sat in the driver's seat, clad in a ridiculous wig, suit, and tie.

"You're late", she snapped, opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat. Bernie nodded, his wig shaking a little as he did so, an uncomfortable smile plastered to his face. Hillary's eyebrow knitted but she said nothing. "So what are we going to do about Trump?"

Bernie said nothing, just turned the car around and out of the driveway. That smile was really starting to get to her. His eyes kept darting around. Her, the road, the steering wheel, her, the road, her, her, the road.

"Bernie?"

The car sped up and Hillary clutched at the handle above the window to steady herself as she buckled her seatbelt. "Slow down, will you?". The car went faster, swerving to narrowly avoid hitting a cherry-red minivan. "Sanders! You're going to get us killed!" Her voice turned shrill and she made no attempt to hide it. Bernie avoided her glare, glancing at the side view mirrors and readjusting his patriotic tie. Goosebumps popped up along Hillary's arms and she was starting to get a cold sense of fear.

Bernie turned left off the highway and onto a dirt road, obviously not well traveled. The dark night was ominous without the yellow glow of the street lamps, and the blanket of black only added to the overall creepiness from Sanders' behavior. That smile was still there, not even close to reaching his eyes. The dim lighting made his face look sunken and his eyes were still wild. He looked like a demented clown from a horror circus.

"Sanders, where are you taking me? I want you to stop the car." Still no answer, not even a glance. It was like she'd never spoken at all. Hillary glanced at the speedometer. They were only going about 25 mph now to accommodate the bumpy road. Maybe, just maybe, she could make a break for it by opening the door to jump out. She took off her heels quietly and placed them underneath her seat, no way would she be able to run away in those shoes, even if Bernie Sanders was a 74 year old man. Hillary took a deep breath and jerked on the door handle. Nothing. The doors were locked.

She had Bernie's attention now. He was staring at her, the odd smile gone. He looked almost amused in a sickly way, as if he enjoyed watching her panic. Grinning at her, he stopped the car. Hillary's heart began to pound and she felt woozy.

Smiling like a cat about to devour a mouse, Bernie got out of the car. Hillary watched, petrified, as Bernie walked around to her side and opened the door. "After you", he said, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture.

Hillary fumbled to unbuckle her seat belt and slide out of the car, wincing as the sharp gravel on the ground dug into her bare feet. They were in a a wide open clearing, blocked off from the highway by a thick barrier of trees, though the sound of cars on the highway could still be heard.

Hillary turned back to face Bernie, then jumped back, screaming. Bernie Sanders was pointing a gun directly at her heart.

"Feel the Bern!" He whooped, pulling the trigger. Not even waiting to see the life leave her eyes, Bernie skipped back to the car, carelessly tossing the gun into the passenger seat as he zoomed away.

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 **AN: Please review!**

 **Mary & Fallon**


	4. Chapter 4

Hillary Clinton felt nothing. She remembered feeling, remembered the thick, red blood pouring from the open wound in her chest, the moonlight suddenly fading to nothing as her heart slowed to a stop. She remembered the proud smirk Bernie had worn right before he had pulled the cold trigger that released the bullet into her heart. But now, as she floated through the dark, she felt nothing.

* * *

Bernie Sanders sat back on his couch. The TV flickered on, lighting up the previously dark room. A bowl of popcorn sat in his lap. He grabbed the remote and flipped through all his channels until he found what he was looking for: the news. Jessica Van Cleef took up most of the screen, explaining that a local farmer had found the recently deceased body of presidential candidate Hillary Clinton. He chuckled darkly, shoving a handful of buttered popcorn into his mouth. He heard a knock at his door. Confused, he muted the TV and stepped toward the front door at the end of the small hallway leading from his living room. He looked through the peephole. Who he saw standing on the other side of his door was definitely not who he expected to see on this night.

Trump stood awkwardly on the other side, a little brown picnic basket clutched tightly in his sweaty left hand.

"Uh, um, hi Bernie," Trump cleared his throat. " I just, um, thought we could celebrate our victory and start planning our next move… maybe. You know, just if you were interested."

Bernie stared at him for a second, perplexed as to why a business meeting would occur at nine at night and require a bottle of champagne and two crystal wine glasses, before he recovered himself and opened the door. "Come on in, Trump."

"Oh," Trump laughed awkwardly, "No need to be so formal Bernie, just call me Donald."

Bernie frowned slightly. He was getting some seriously weird vibes. Again. "Why don't we celebrate in the living room It's this way."

The next ten minutes passed awkwardly at best. Trump poured them both a glass of bubbling champagne and set out a little cracker and cheese spread that he produced from the picnic basket. Bernie was painfully aware of Trump's eyes on him, but he ate a cracker or two just to be polite.

Bernie rearranged his legs on the picnic blanket underneath him. He reached for the basket the same time Trump did, causing Donald to retract his hand to his chest, blushing and mumbling an apology. Bernie's hand, however, continued into the basket and came out brandishing a small loaf of French bread. His other hand stretched and grabbed a knife.

"We have butter, too," Trump pointed out softly, showing Bernie the Land of Lakes he had brought. He pushed it gently over to his partner. Said partner pulled the lid off and scraped out some butter and spread a generous amount on a small slice of bread. He held it out to Donald, whose head was ducked for the fear that Bernie would see his beet-red blush.

"Did you need something, Donald?" Bernie asked after a while. "I assume you're not just here for a midnight picnic in my living room." Trump sighed and turned to the window, trying to fit his feelings into words. He was too full of emotion. Bernie slid his experienced hand onto Donald's thigh. "Take all the time you need," he whispered, worried noise would break this perfect silence.

"I'll be honest," Donald started, slowly turning to face Bernie. "I miss how things were. With us." Bernie took this in. Suddenly, the doorbell rang loudly, making Bernie jump.

"I'll be right back," he promised Trump, backing out of the kitchen on his way to the door. This time, Bernie peered through the peephole before he opened the door, wary of who may be on the other side. When he saw who it was, he flung the door open and threw his arms wide open.

* * *

 **AN: Who could it be?**

 **Keep reading!**

 **Mary and Fallon**


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